“In a manner of speaking,” Joanna replied. “Lestrade apparently found her pantry stocked with very expensive items, such as an abundance of beluga caviar, which would cost as much as Edmunds’s monthly salary at Hawke and Evans. In addition, there was a recently purchased dress in her closet that carried a label from Selfridges, which of course is a high-end department store. You should also know that Scotland Yard discovered two hundred pounds under a floorboard in that same closet. Thus, I think it is fair to say that the wife had to be aware of her husband’s sudden abundance of money and from whence it was derived.”
“Perhaps she was hiding money under the giant afghan as well,” Johnny suggested.
“I think not,” Joanna said. “A woman this clever would never hide such a small yet so valuable an item in the open, even if concealed by a afghan. She would find a more secure place for the stack of pounds.”
“Where then?”
“Under her dress, where Scotland Yard would never bother to look.”
“But you would.”
“Of course.”
My father inquired, “Is that the reason you seem so eager to investigate the wife further?”
“One of them,” Joanna said evasively.
“Shall John and I accompany you on this hunt?”
“John will be at my side, but I have another task I will ask you to carry out. While we are on our way to the Edmundses’ home, I would like you to travel to Number Three Pinchin Lane and fetch Toby Two, for I have work for her.”
“To what purpose?”
“If you wish to outwit a fox, my dear Watson, you must use a hound.”
On that note we departed Gennaro’s and walked out into a cold, clear night. The lampposts suddenly lost their illumination and all the homes along Baker Street went dark, for the Great War was ongoing and intermittent blackouts were required in order to dim the lighted targets, which served as a beacon for the terrifying Zeppelin air raids. In the distance we could hear the siren telling us that such a raid could be imminent. We quickly picked up our pace.
“I have an early train to Eton in the morning and can make my own way to Paddington station,” Johnny said to us. “There is no need to wake you.”
“Nonsense,” I insisted. “We shall be there to give you a proper send-off.”
“And we shall be there for your return as well,” Joanna promised.
“With a little good fortune, perhaps your case could be solved by then,” said Johnny.
“Which would make for a most merry Christmas indeed,” my father chimed in.
We paused to allow traffic to go by before crossing over to our rooms at 221b Baker Street. Our window was well lighted, for there was no alert for a blackout when we departed for dinner. We had left the lamp on and logs ablaze in the fireplace, awaiting our return. I was about to suggest we hurry to our rooms when my gaze went to the roof above our parlor. I saw a small, flickering light that seemed out of place. It was too small to be a torch.
I pointed to the light and asked, “Is that a candle or perhaps someone striking a match?”
As we hurried across the street, Joanna’s eyes followed my line of vision. The small light now appeared to be moving to the very edge of the roof.
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
“Run!” Joanna cried out at the top of her voice. “Run for the vestibule!”
We sprinted for the entrance and managed to reach the door just as a lighted bottle hit the pavement and exploded into a wall of flames. I pushed Joanna, Johnny, and my father into the antechamber and slammed the door behind us, with only a moment to spare before the flames reached the entrance of the building. We waited anxiously to see if the door itself would catch fire, but it did not and remained surprisingly cool to the touch. Outside, we could hear brakes being applied so that the occupants of the passing automobiles might view the flames. Someone was shouting, “Stand clear! Stand clear!” We all took long, deep breaths to gather ourselves and allow our racing pulses to slow.
“Should we wait for the firemen?” I asked.
“Not if my assumption is correct,” Joanna replied and cautiously cracked open the door. The fire was for the most part out, with only a few lingering flames remaining on the footpath. But the odor of solvent hung heavily in the air. “It was a bomb, which was thrown from the roof by Harry Edmunds.”
“I may actually have seen him,” I recollected and told of the man peering into the restaurant whose neck seemed to disappear into his chest. “It gave that appearance because he no doubt had a scarf wrapped around his neck. I thought he was a poor chap hungrily looking into the fine restaurant, but I was mistaken.”
“It had to be Harry Edmunds, surveilling us prior to his bomb making,” Joanna asserted.
“He no doubt used a lighted candle as a trigger mechanism,” I noted. “And his timing was nearly perfect.”
Joanna nodded and opened the door widely as neighbors looked out of their houses at the disturbance. “Exactly so, for Edmunds is an expert when it comes to making explosive devices from solvent, as his former cellmate Derrick Wilson could attest to were he still alive.”
“Bravo to the junior Dr. Watson for spotting the flame on the roof,” Johnny praised.
“Good show indeed!” my father lauded.
“It was happenstance,” I said honestly. “It was simply a matter of me gazing up at a most opportune moment.”
“Which sounded the alert and no doubt saved our lives,” Joanna insisted. “This should be a warning to all of us, for a man who has killed once will have no hesitation to kill again.”
“But why now?” I asked. “What suddenly goaded him into action?”
“The newspaper articles,” Joanna replied. “They put a target on our backs, you might say. This was an attempt to kill us or at least frighten us off,
